


end of the line

by safffrons



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, au-ish, set sometime during chapter 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 08:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17722100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safffrons/pseuds/safffrons
Summary: “This gang ain’t gonna last much longer. Anyone with sense can see that. And when it all falls apart, I want you to come with us. Me, Abigail, and Jack.”The tree’s rough bark digs into John’s hand. Arthur’s eyes are wide, and he shakes his head. “John, the way that I am, I’m not gonna last – “John cuts him off. “I don’t want to hear that. Just think about it. Please.”(John and Arthur and what could have been, maybe.)





	end of the line

**Author's Note:**

> how do.... smut.... also it's been like four months since the game came out and I'm still crying

Out of all the campsites that the Van Der Linde gang has set up in the fourteen years that John’s been running with them, Beaver Hollow might be the worst of the lot.

Abigail frowns when he labels it the shithole it is, but not in disagreement. “Used to be Murfree Brood territory,” she says. Her eyes flicker through the gap in their tent to the black hollow of the cave behind Dutch’s tent, and then to Jack’s small, sleeping form between them.

“Jack hasn’t stopped yammering about what’s in that cave,” she murmurs. “Arthur said they were keeping a girl caged up in there. God knows what else they were doing.”

John snorts, shaking his head. “Nothing worth thinking about, that’s for sure.”

He stares up above them, through the holes in the tent that shift as the fabric’s rustled by the breeze. The sky is cloudless; a good night for stars. “That’s not it, though.”

He thinks Abigail understands. Her blue eyes look gray in the darkness as she turns to look at him, sad. Above Jack’s head, he squeezes her hand, and she sighs.

Maybe it increased the feeling of dread, whatever doubtless horrible acts have been committed here. But there’s been a pit in his stomach ever since that fucking boat back in Blackwater. It’s only gotten worse from there, as their numbers steadily fall and Dutch continues to insist that _he has a goddamn plan, John, if only you’d stop questioning_ but he can’t when things are so obviously going to hell and some of them are too content on pretending it ain’t. When Dutch had obviously never been planning to rescue him from that prison, after leaving him at the mercy of the guns of those lawmen back in Saint Denis.

So much for family, despite all the bullshit Dutch used to spout, the empty platitudes he still offers.

But John’s still got one to think about, a wife and son to look after as Arthur’s told him a million goddamn times.

What he should do if things continue to spiral like this - as it will, he won’t fool himself - is obvious.

But this life, shooting and killing and robbing, the smell of gunpowder thick in the air and the stain of blood on his hands is all he’s ever thought he would amount to.

It’s all John’s ever known.

Ω

He’d still been in shock the first time he’d seen Arthur Morgan. The earth felt unsteady under his feet. He couldn’t believe that his worn-out boots were still treading upon its dirt.

John had been so sure he was going to die up on that platform. Twelve years of life, all leading up to this moment; standing on a stool they’d placed for his too-short body, the noose already bruising his neck where it was tied. Barely listening as the sheriff read out his sentence, the act of thievery that had deserved him the penalty of death.

He wanted to be angry at the crowd of ten or so people who’d come to watch his execution, their eyes dull and empty, mouths hanging open like dead fishes under the hot Illinois sun. He wished he could spit out the worst curses he knew and damn them to hell. But all he felt was despair.

A prostitute for a mother who had died when he entered this world. An illiterate Scotsman for a daddy who’d been blinded in a bar fight and passed not too long after, leaving little Johnny Marston all by his lonesome, skinny and starving. That this was his fate should not have been surprising.

But then Dutch had saved him.

Dutch’s big hand on his shoulder in those hazy memories, encouraging and pulling John along when he stumbled. The wrinkle in his brow as he smiled; _you’re safe now, son. You can be a part of something greater, if you come with me._

John had only ever been nothing and no one. What else was he going to say?

The gang hadn’t been big back then. Dutch and Hosea, their women. And then Arthur.

John had already felt small as he stood at their camp, looking at Dutch and Hosea’s fine clothes, the guns on their belt, listening to the smooth rumbles of their laughs. He felt smaller as he was held under the kind and appraising gazes of the women, who looked more impressive than most he’d ever seen. Susan had grabbed his hand and led him over to the fire, pushing a bowl of soup into his hands. Her voice was stern as she told him to eat, but her eyes were soft.

He didn’t know what they’d seen in him that was worth saving. He was still trembling. Blood stained his clothes in patches from the spray that had blown out the back of the sheriff’s head when he’d been shot.

Then a young man sat heavily on the log across from him. Tall and broad-shouldered, with dark blond hair that glowed gold in the firelight. He was undeniably handsome and much more impressive than John, who curled further into himself, staring at the ground.

Blue eyes passed over John without stopping as the man reached for a bowl. He finally paused as he was looking back up, his gaze alighting on John.

He hadn’t looked at him long before frowning the slightest bit and glancing at Susan. “What’s a boy doing here?”

_A boy_. He hadn’t been worth addressing directly. The feelings of inferiority had begun there and hadn’t stopped curdling until years later.

Dutch had walked over at that point, making sweeping, dramatic introductions. John had continued to stare at the dirt, only looking up when Dutch gave a name for the young man. Arthur’s gaze had been piercing, looking right back at him.

It’s piercing now, as he scowls at John. “What?”

“I have to repeat myself now?” John asks, exasperated. “Let me come hunting with you.”

Arthur scowls harder. “I don’t need no help, John.”

He’s been shifting more to that in the last few months instead of the sharp _Marston_ that had been constant ever since he’d returned after that year. Arthur’s eyes are no longer so accusing, but there’s still something guarded as he looks at John, before looking away when John meets his gaze.

“Didn’t say you needed it,” John replies easily, instead of letting his hackles rise as they might have before. “I’m itching for a ride, is all.”

Arthur stares at him for a moment, before sighing and turning on his heel. “You’re more likely to scare away the prey and leave us all starving than not,” he throws over his shoulder, but John takes it as the acceptance it is, falling into step behind him.

He stops briefly to tell Abigail where he’s going, and her features relax from their now habitual concern to relief. “Good. He needs a break from all this. And, if you…”

She trails off, but John can see well enough where it was supposed to lead. “I know.”

Abigail nods, throwing him a tight smile as he leaves.

John can feel Dutch’s gaze burning into his back as he hops up into Old Boy’s saddle, but he ignores it. Arthur does too. “Come on,” he says before starting his horse down the path leading away from the camp.

They don’t talk. John only has Arthur’s back to look at as they ride, the jacket he wears seeming to hang off his frame. The big, golden horse below Arthur huffs, and he pats his neck gently, murmuring, “That’s a good boy.” Buell is what the horse is called, John thinks. Arthur had ridden him into camp one day with no explanation, and no one had pushed for one, seeing the look on his face.

Arthur leads him through a stream and further into the mountains. Over grassy hills with orange flowers dancing in the wind, winding around the cliffside, the view beautiful below. John likes the wild, but not as much as Arthur, who seems to love it rather than just like. If he belongs anywhere, it’s in the wilderness, and that’s obvious watching the calm that settles over Arthur’s face and shoulders.

“Here’s a good spot,” Arthur says finally, pulling Buell to a stop as the path begins to wind through the forest. Arthur shoots him a look as they dismount. “I know it’s only your nature but try not to be a bumbling fool for once, Marston.”

The fond look in his eyes takes the sharp edge off the words. John scoffs at him. “Only fool I see around here is you, Morgan.”

John thinks he can see the barest hint of a smile at the corner of Arthur’s mouth before he turns to grab a bow and arrows from Buell’s saddle.

“There’s a herd by the creek,” Arthur says, pointing with his free hand down the hill, away from the path they’re on. “Follow me and don’t be too loud.”

He goes to move past John, but John blocks him with his arm. Arthur lifts his head – glaring at John for only a few seconds before he gets tired of it and releases an irritated sigh. “What now, John?”

John holds out his hand. “Why don’t you let me give it a go instead?”

Arthur’s face shifts into incredulity. “You kidding?”

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Arthur breaks the standoff as he turns away, groaning. “Come on, John. When the hell have you ever used a bow and arrow?”

“Funny, because I seem to recall you shooting rabbits to hell not too long ago,” John says. Hunting trips from back when he was a boy and used to tag along with Arthur are still damn hard to forget. The both of them would always return to camp covered in blood and guts without fail. A clean hunter, Arthur was not.

Arthur rolls his eyes at him and John wiggles the fingers of his still outstretched hand. “You only just learned how to use it. I might as well learn now too.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, I hope you know that,” Arthur says, ignoring John’s hand and shoving the bow and a couple of arrows into his chest.

A few moments later, they’re crouched a short distance from the stream. John fits the tail of an arrow between his fingers, pulling it back with the bow’s string (which is damn difficult, actually, his arm’s already beginning to ache). He squints an eye. “Like this, right?”

Arthur huffs behind him. “No, not at all like _that_ ,” he mutters. John feels more than hears Arthur settle beside him. His hands move over John’s, adjusting his grip, and then the crook of his elbow. Arthur’s breath stutters over his ear, and John feels –

Arthur moves away. When John looks in his direction, his eyes are on the ground. “I taught a nice lady up by Willard’s Rest how to use a bow. She was much better at this than you.”

The sky is blue, the sun rises in the morning, and Arthur drawls out all of John’s shortcomings. Some things never change. Instead of the usual annoyance, he feels warm.

John grins at Arthur, who keeps his eyes on the dirt. “We all got our own pace, Arthur. Seems to me you could use a little patience, I haven’t even tried to shoot one yet.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be dead by the time you manage to kill a deer at this rate.” Arthur’s cheeks seem a little pink as he meets John’s gaze, but John’s eyesight has never been the best.

“Alright, alright.” John looks away to squint at a deer that’s slightly isolated from its herd, ignorant of their presence and happily lapping away at the water.

“Aim for the head or the neck.”

“Christ, I know. I ain’t that dumb, Arthur.”

Arthur laughs a little, before breaking into a series of short coughs. “Just checking.”

His first shot misses, and John swears as the herd startles. His second, panicked shot hits true, and a deer falls as the rest of its brethren flee.

“Shit, that was close,” Arthur says, eyebrows raised. “You got damn lucky.”

“Hell, you just described the past few months,” John says, shaking his head as they stand up.

Once they leave the grass for the sand and pebbles, Arthur beings to kneel beside the downed deer.

John gets there faster, lifting the deer and swinging it over his shoulders. “I’ve got it.”

Arthur’s mouth pulls down as John straightens. For a moment, he looks helpless, his lips slightly parted and his hands limp at his sides. John wants to reach out, his free arm already twitching, and then Arthur’s expression sharpens into a glare.

“I told you I don’t need no help, John,” he snaps. “I could have damn well done that myself.”

The red flush in Arthur’s cheeks doesn’t do any good for his pallor. John knows that Arthur has never liked feeling useless, that even when sick he’s tried to struggle out of his cot to “do his part” when he’s always done more than enough. Prickly defensiveness is what Arthur falls back to when he’s not feeling strong, particularly when it’s John he’s talking to - but despite knowing all that John can’t help the rising frustration.

“You forgetting that I was the one with the bow? My kill to carry, Arthur,” John says. “Hell, even if it wasn’t, you’d think it would kill you, to let someone do something nice for you for once. Especially when you’re – “

“Especially when I’m what?” Arthur says. His tone is soft, but John can see the danger in his eyes.

Briefly, John hesitates. Then he wonders why he’s hesitating. They’ve been walking on eggshells long enough. Fuck the warning look Arthur’s giving him. He’s done pretending nothing’s wrong, and to hell with not speaking up about it, either.

John whistles for his horse. He frees the burden from his shoulder and ties it securely, Arthur bristling at his back all the while. When John finally turns around, he does so viciously, jabbing a finger into the center of Arthur’s chest.

“You don’t want to tell us what you’re sick with? Fine. That’s your own business.” To his own ears, John’s voice sounds lower, more gravel in his rasp. “But if you expect everyone to keep acting like nothing’s wrong, as if you’re still healthy as a horse - then _you’re out of your goddamn mind_ , Arthur.”

His pitch rises to just short of a yell on the last part, his stomach heaving. Arthur’s eyes are bright. “What the fuck do you want me to do, John?” he says, his voice beginning to rise as well. “The law will be catching on to where we are any day now. We’ve lost too many people, Dutch is staring to lose _his_ mind, and – what, I just should just go rest somewhere until I get better? I ain’t going to get any damn _better_ , I’m - ”

Arthur starts to cough. Not the short, wheezing coughs from earlier but ones that rack his whole body, that sound wet.

Shit. John wraps an arm around waist, pulling him over to a nearby tree.

After John had hit twenty, he’d finally grown a few inches taller than Arthur, just enough to be able to lord it over him. Until one day Arthur had finally gotten fed up with his teasing and elbowed him hard in the gut, and John didn’t dare rest his arm on top of Arthur’s head again. In spite of the extra height Arthur was still broader and stronger than he was, and probably always would be, John had thought.

But Arthur ain’t nowhere near as broad as he used to be, now. As he leans against him and lets John takes his weight, John has never been more conscious of the fact that Arthur is smaller than him.

Something thick lodges in John’s throat. He rests Arthur against the tree, sliding his arm back and squeezing Arthur’s shoulder until his coughs die down into halting breaths.

Arthur wipes at his mouth with his wrist, the light brown sleeve of his jacket coming away stained red. He grimaces.

John pulls his hand from Arthur’s shoulder, moving it to the bark instead. “Maybe you should sit down.”

Arthur waves him off, too tired to speak.

John feels awkward as he stands there, leaning over him. He can hear Abigail berating him inside his head, and he sighs.

“I got carried away,” he says, as close as he can get to _sorry_ without saying the actual word. “I’m just – shit, I’m just worried, and I’m an asshole. I ain’t no good at being…” He winces. “Soft, I guess.”

Arthur had stopped wheezing, sometime during all that rambling. He shoots John a wan smile. “You wouldn’t be John Marston if you weren’t an asshole. Or if you were soft.”

John laughs. “I guess so.”

Now both of them stand there awkwardly. John’s horse stomps at the sand away from them. John tries to run a hand through his hair. It gets tangled in a knot before he can go very far, and he pulls a face.

Neither of them has ever been good at being nice to each other, the snarking and the insults coming as easy as pulling a trigger has become to John. Trying to be nice – that feels like trying to breathe under water, impossible, and John has never been a swimmer. But it’s the least John can do when Arthur looks like this, pale and exhausted and _frail_ , a word that shouldn’t have ever applied to him.

“You asked me what I want you to do, earlier,” John manages to push out.

Arthur glances at him through a fringe of blond hair and nods.

John breathes in deeply. “I want you to let someone else take care of you for once. You’ve always been there for me, for everyone, and. Shit, Arthur. I don’t want to see you waste away like this.”

Arthur smiles a little. “I don’t think either of us has a choice in that, John.”

“And that. I hate hearing you talk like you’re gonna – “ He stops. The last thing he wants to hear is Arthur’s blunt honesty, which is undoubtedly what he’ll give him if John voices the rest of that sentence.

“Me and Abigail have been talking,” John says instead.

“Not arguing?” Arthur asks, and John kicks the toe of his boot. “Okay, damn. Go on.”

“This gang ain’t gonna last much longer. Anyone with sense can see that. And when it all falls apart, I want you to come with us. Me, Abigail, and Jack.”

The tree’s rough bark digs into John’s hand. Arthur’s eyes are wide, and he shakes his head. “John, the way that I am, I’m not gonna last – “

John cuts him off. “I don’t want to hear that. Just think about it. Please.”

“I don’t…” The stunned look of surprise on Arthur’s face might be funny, in another situation. He shakes his head again, his hair falling into his eyes. John stops resisting the urge and pushes it back for him, his fingers gentle.

“We ain’t a perfect family, and I don’t think we will be,” John says. He smiles crookedly. “But maybe we can make an honest life for ourselves, leave this shit behind. I know that’s what you want. And it wouldn’t be fair if you weren’t there to see it.”

Arthur blinks at him. “I – I’ll try.” John’s hand slides down to cup his cheek.

After a moment, Arthur presses his face into John’s palm. _This_ had been crackling between them just before John had left, unsaid but impossible not to notice. It hadn’t gone anywhere then, because of his wife and son. But things aren’t the same with them now as it’d been before.

John’s eyes flick down to Arthur’s lips, parted enough that John can see the tip of his tongue. He lightly grips Arthur’s chin and lifts it up, tilting Arthur’s face towards him as he leans down.

Just before he can kiss him, Arthur turns away. Before John can feel upset at the rejection Arthur ducks his face into John’s shoulder, pressing against him. John can feel him shaking.

“You’re an idiot,” Arthur murmurs. His fingers twist and untwist in John’s duster, tugging at him. “I’m sick, remember? I don’t want you catching what I have. You’ve also got Abigail, John.”

John buries his relieved smile in Arthur’s hair. “Those the only reasons you don’t want me to kiss you?”

Arthur hesitates. “Yeah.”

 John laughs. “Abigail don’t mind, Arthur. And if that’s the case, I’ll just have to kiss somewhere other than your mouth, then,” John whispers in his ear. Before Arthur can respond, John winds his fingers in his hair and pulls his head to the side, giving him access to his neck.

 Arthur doesn’t make much noise, but this close John can hear the sharp inhale he takes as John sucks a bruise into his skin. He smells good despite the sweat, and John stops to smile into his neck.

Arthur’s hands slip into his duster to grab his waist. “Christ, John,” he breathes, and John pushes aside his collar to land a soft kiss on his shoulder, before he slides his hands under Arthur’s shirt.

Arthur seems to internally wrestle with something as John’s hands smooth across his ribs. “I can’t give you much like this,” he mutters, gasping as John bites the skin in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “But…”

One of Arthur’s hands leaves his waist to cup his crotch without much warning. John almost jumps, startled, raising his head to stare at Arthur. “Jesus, you trying to kill me?”

Arthur grins and squeezes him, and John can’t stop the moan that arises. “Something like that.”

As Arthur fumbles with his buckle and then the buttons at his jeans, John grabs his hips and surges into his space until Arthur’s back is completely pressed against the tree. “Always knew you were gonna be the death of me.”

“Shit, I should be the one saying that,” Arthur says as his hand finally manages to worm into John’s union suit and wrap around his naked cock, already hard.

“Jesus,” John groans, as Arthur slides his hand to the base of his shaft and strokes him. His hand feels both too hot and too good.

“You keep calling that name, but it’s just me.”

“You’re a brat, you know that?”

“Hey, I’m older than you. If anyone’s the kid here – “ He falls silent as John squeezes _his_ crotch, just shy of painful.

He’d only been trying to get Arthur to stop mouthing off, but Arthur’s ensuing shiver makes him pause. “You into that?” John asks, his voice rough. “When it hurts?”

Arthur glares at him without heat. “Just shut up,” he mutters, and twists his hand in a way that makes John growl and curl into him.

Arthur’s hand falters as he reaches the tip of John’s cock, his thumb teasing at the foreskin hesitantly.

It’s only then that it strikes John that this may be the first time Arthur’s done something like this, despite the way he’s getting to him. He’d never been the type to flirt with any of the girls at any saloon or _anywhere_ , always keeping his hands to himself like a goddamn monk. Pretty much the opposite of John, really. As far as he knows, Arthur’s only been serious with two women. Nothing that speaks of a lot of experience.

“I got an idea,” John rasps, unclasping Arthur’s belt.

Soon he’s got both of their cocks in hand, pressed together. John pushes Arthur’s hand back to his own shaft. He covers his hand and grasps it encouragingly. “Like this,” he murmurs, and then ruts up against Arthur.

John can’t count the amount of times he’d found a willing feller to go with behind a saloon, just looking to get off without thinking of much. This is different, though. The friction of their rutting together makes him feel hot, his head light from the rush of arousal. He feels like a goddamn schoolboy who can’t control himself, already on the brink of a climax. At least Arthur doesn’t look like his control is faring much better, lips red from biting, his eyes glazed over.

“Arthur,” he whispers into his ear, swiping at some of the liquid welling on his cock. “How many times have you thought of this? Brought yourself off, wishing it was me.”

For once, Arthur’s smart mouth doesn’t reply, and he shudders.

John presses a kiss against his jawline. “I’m with you right now, sweetheart,” he says, the endearment falling from his lips before he can think twice of it. “And I want you to come for me. Come on.”

It only takes a few more hushed words of encouragement before Arthur spills over, gasping. It doesn’t take long before John follows.

John lets his forehead fall into Arthur’s shoulder as they both catch their breath. After a while, Arthur breaks the silence. “Sweetheart?”

John quickly feels embarrassed, heat rushing to his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says gruffly, pulling back. “You don’t like it?”

Arthur frowns at the sticky liquid branching between his fingers as he tucks himself away with his clean hand, likely in place of frowning at John. “That’s not it,” he says quietly. “Just took me by surprise, is all.”

“Oh.”

Arthur meets his gaze for no longer than a second, his eyes darting away. John can see a flush creeping up his neck.

“At least there’s water nearby,” Arthur says, clearing his throat. “Don’t know how we’d ever go back to camp with this mess.” Old Boy neighs at the water’s edge, as if in agreement. John had forgotten about the damn horse.

John snorts. “People manage.”

It’s awkward again, as it ever is with them. John ignores the tension to step forward, curling his arm around Arthur’s shoulders and gently knocking their foreheads together.

“Whatever happens next, we’ll figure it out together,” John says. “Like we always have. Alright?”

Arthur exhales shakily, avoiding his eyes. “Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> surprisingly enough, tb isn't something you can contract through kissing! i did some research (aka googling "can you get tb through kissing) and no, it's only spread through coughing or whatnot. i mean, take that with a grain of salt, but you learn something new et cetera. still, i doubt that's something arthur would know being back in 1899 though and so better safe than sorry, goes the saying.
> 
> i'll probably always be crying over these two's relationship :))))))) but if you liked this little piece leave a kudos and a comment, please! thanks for reading :D


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